


A Man, Pure of Heart

by sivib



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sivib/pseuds/sivib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even a man who is pure of heart, and says his prayers at night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright."</p><p>Only it isn't autumn, Chicago is not known for its wolfbane, and Frasier doesn't feel all that pure of heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man, Pure of Heart

The sun was too bright, even in the shade of the fetid alleyway. Too bright, too hot on Fraser’s back. Sweat trickled down his temple, tickling out from beneath the leather hatband to wind down his sticky skin and into the near choking collar. Today of all days, why had he worn the reds? Springtime in Chicago was hotter than high summer in the Territories and Fraser was wilting in the humidity. Wrong temperature, wrong smells, wrong surface under his feet, hard concrete rather than springy tundra. Not for the first time, Fraser wished himself home and away.

At his feet, Diefenbaker whined and panted, open-mouthed. 

“Yes, I know, but Ray is expecting us to be here when he herds the perpetrators in our direction.” Fraser slipped his finger under the pinching collar and pulled, letting in a sliver of slightly cooler air. Dief whined again, then settled on his belly and put his nose between his paws.

“You’re right. It does smell. However, I see no need for you to go on about it when I’m suffering just as much as you.” The odors of rancid fat and rotten cabbage from Fu Ma’s fought with the reek of stale sweat and too many bodies from the fitness center next door. The overlay of grime, pigeon droppings, and urine did nothing to make the alley any more bearable, and the miasma was coating the inside of Fraser’s nose and making him nauseated. “At least we’re not in the dumpster. Just behind it.” 

Dief made no comment.

The sound of running feet heralded the end of their ordeal. The splintered backdoor of the warehouse flew open and a harried looking man in a business suit came stumbling out, a gun in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He paused in his flight to fire behind him, then turned and ran on, his face a mask of anger and determination.

No point in giving the man a target, Fraser reasoned, and waited until the villain drew abreast before flinging himself from his hiding place and bringing the man down in a rolling tackle. The gun went flying one way and the briefcase the other, leaving the man’s hands free to grapple. Fraser dodged a clumsy punch and laid hands on his lanyard, freeing it and looping it around one of the flying fists before flipping the villain on his abdomen and securing the other.

Drawing breath, he looked around for the brightly-attired form of Ray Vecchio, whom he fully expected to come barreling out of the warehouse directly behind the man now cursing and writhing on the ground beneath Fraser’s restraining hands. There was, however, no-one in the doorway or the alley, and now Fraser smelled a new smell. Blood.

He rolled the villain over and noted a spatter of bright red across his blindingly white shirt front. A flash of white rage crept up Fraser’s throat, and he shook the man roughly. “Where is Ray Vecchio?” he growled, and he heard the man’s heartbeat speed up, saw sweat bead his upper lip, and fear fill his blinking eyes. “Where is he?”

The man went very still, drawing back as much as he was able. “I don’t…he was right behind me, I swear.” 

Submission. Fear sweat. The throat was bare, the belly exposed. Sink in teeth. Worry the flesh. Claw the belly. Hot blood in his mouth and an ache in his legs to run. Find the pack-mate. Find Ray.

“What the hell…Benny? What’s wrong?”

Fraser looked up, blinking, panting, and saw Ray, hale and well and not bleeding at all. The taste of copper filling his mouth made him gag suddenly and he rolled away to vomit in the noisome bins. His aching stomach empty of all but bile and fear, Fraser drew out his handkerchief with a shaking hand and wiped his mouth, but there was no blood on the white linen when he finished. The phantom taste faded and he dared to look at the quivering man on the ground. 

Throat intact. Belly whole. Spreading stain at his crotch.

And Dief and Ray were both staring at him like he’d gone insane. Perhaps he had.

Clearing his throat, Fraser stood and said, “I’m fine. Perhaps you could drop me at my apartment on your way to central booking. I’m feeling…rather unwell.”

Looking askance, as well he might since Ray well knew Fraser would carry on through sickness, injury, or anything less than a mortal wound, nevertheless the detective simply nodded and led the way back to the car. On the way, he exchanged Fraser’s lanyard for handcuffs and allowed Fraser to return his uniform to regulation appearance, if somewhat wilted by the heat. It calmed them both, and by the time they reached the Riv, Fraser was ready to put off the disturbing incident as a heat-induced temporary insanity.

“Is the weather always like this?” he asked, gesturing Dief into the backseat before climbing in the front. “Two weeks ago there was snow on the ground. Now we’re in the middle of a heat wave.”

Ray grinned. “Seventy-two degrees is hardly a heat wave, Benny. Wait until summer. Gets up to over a hundred in July and August.”

The idea made Fraser queasy. He fingered the thick wool of his uniform and hid a small sigh. Perhaps he could acquire a window mounted air conditioner. For Diefenbaker’s sake, of course. Arctic wolves were unused to that kind of heat and Dief would suffer terribly without some relief. “When I was eleven, we lived in Inuvik. The thermometer rose to the mid-twenties for ten straight days in August of that year and the elders were predicting the Apocalypse.”

Ray glanced over at him. “The mid-twenties? You’re kidding me. I knew it was cold up there, but not that cold.”

Fraser smiled slightly and undid the top button of his jacket. “Celsius, Ray. The mid-twenties would translate to somewhere between seventy-six and eighty-two degrees Farenheight.”

“Jeeze, Benny. You gotta get something else to wear, then. That zoot suit you wear is gonna be a sauna.” Ray pulled in at the curb, ignoring the moans from the trussed man in the back seat with Dief. “Any way you got, like, Mountie regulation shorts and a t-shirt?”

Fraser climbed out and paused to let Deif descend to the pavement as well. “I’m afraid not, Ray. It wouldn’t be proper. Thank you for dropping us off.”

Ray nodded, then squinted up at Fraser. “You sure you’re okay? Back in the alley, you looked kinda weird. Like you were gonna tear this gomba’s head off, or something.”

Blood in his mouth. Rage in his throat. The scent of prey on the wind and raw earth beneath his paws and running, running….

“It’s the heat. I saw blood on his shirt and I thought you were injured. I must have over-reacted.” Claws tearing. His throat open in a howl of rage and longing. Blood….

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Ray didn’t look convinced, but he let the door close and pulled away, leaving Fraser standing on the sidewalk, suddenly afraid to be alone.

Even with all his windows open, the apartment was stifling. Ben stripped down to his underwear and sat at the window, praying for a breeze. Dief sat beside him, sighing now and again, his flanks quivering with his panting breath. The sun was setting behind the buildings, letting the wind from over the lake blow slightly cooler, and a passing caress lifted the hair from Ben’s brow. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, taking a sip of cool water, letting it trickle down his throat.

The shadows grew long and the light golden, then red, then twilight crept over the room. Fraser didn’t stir to light his lantern, nor move to his cot, but sat at the window until night was fully upon the city and the full moon shone gravid silver, pale and beautiful as a night out on the open tundra. Almost as light as day, but in tones of grey and black rather than the rich colors of the daylight world, and shadow sharp enough to cut. Ben drew a deep breath and closed his eyes and let his mind wander where it would, hoping he would find some kind of clue as to his strange behavior of that afternoon.

Vast fields, rolling and empty of anything but the small life of the far north and the caribou and the wolves. The land heaving like an ocean under the sailing-ship of the moon, the miles falling away beneath his bare feet as he ran up hill and down. He splashed through a creek, frightening the fish, but he was across and away, the cold water biting but soothing on his paws. He felt no fatigue, no thirst or hunger, just the joy of running and running beneath that endless sky. He leapt up, yipping with delight, and then scented a female. She was nearby and in estrus. Changing course, he galloped into the forest and found her back trail. Pausing only to mark and to sniff, he soon came upon her, lolling in a clearing in the full and rich grass of spring. Another male was there, sniffing, and a growl rose in twin throats. The female ignored them both and the two males came together with a tempest of growls and snapping teeth.

Blood and fur, scrabbling of claw, hackles raised and teeth bared. The fight was fierce, but brief and the other male slunk away to lick his wounds. 

The female was still there, whining deep in her throat, her heat full upon her. He inhaled deeply of her scent and then moved behind her and….

Ben’s eyes shot open. He was aware of three things only: he was fully and painfully aroused, he was lying on the floor, and he was not alone.

Despite the dim light, he saw the intruder clearly. The man was tall and broad of shoulder, with a shock of thick white hair above an oddly unlined face, making him look both old and young at the same time. His eyes were a pale blue, as round as the moon that illuminated the room, and he was completely naked. 

He sat on Fraser’s cot, cross-legged, and contemplated Fraser with an unblinking stare, his head slightly cocked. “Hi, Ben,” he said, his voice low and a little rough. “You okay?”

Ben considered this for a moment, then answered, “No. I really don’t think I am.” 

The stranger grinned, and Ben felt a flash of recognition slip past him, like a bolting rabbit. There and then gone. “I’ll bet. You looked pretty well gone.” The man’s eyes never left Ben’s face, following the movement as Fraser sat up and moved back to his abandoned chair. “I’m sorry, by the way. Been meaning to tell you, but you never mentioned it so I guess I let it slip.”

The conversation was going down the rabbit hole along with that fleeting sense of having met this man before, following the white rabbit of good sense into oblivion. “Sorry for what?” Fraser ran his hand over his face, glad that the disturbing pressure was easing in his groin. “Who are you?”

The man looked a little hurt, but his grin didn’t fade. Good humor sparked in those moon-bright eyes as the man said, “Diefenbaker. Don’t you recognize me?” He swiped at his nose with one hand and then scratched himself in a very familiar manner. “The first time we met I dropped a board on your head. Remember? That’s not what I’m sorry for, though. I was just a pup, didn’t know any better, thought I was helping, you know?”

“I know,” Fraser replied, and he could see it, really. The moonlight made it seem possible, and the quiet. His wolf was looking at him out of the man’s unshaven face, through the man’s cool blue eyes. Dief was right there, having shed his wolf-skin and donned the robes of strange flesh. “I forgave you that a long time ago.” Dief was watching his mouth, not his face. Reading lips. “How much hearing loss do you have, anyway. The vet could never tell me precisely.”

“It’s like I’m listening underwater most of the time, but high tones are easier.” Dief stood up and rummaged through Fraser’s clean clothes, pulling out a pair of old sweatpants and putting them on. “I have to admit, you’re taking this better than I thought you would. I kind of thought you’d freak out.”

“Well, I’m dreaming, obviously. No point in becoming distressed at a dream.” Dief laughed at this and Ben’s stomach sank. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Nope. This is as real as when I pulled you out of the Sound. I changed then, too, but you don’t remember that. At least, you’ve never given a sign that you did. Although it was about then that you started talking to me like you understood me, so you might have remembered more than you do, if you follow me.” He sat back down on the cot, his big hands folded between his knees, leaning on his elbows. “No, I’m sorry I bit you. Didn’t mean to do it, but I was frightened for Maggie and the kids and you just wouldn’t listen and when I’m four footed my instincts take over for my brain. So, sorry.”

The ache in Ben’s wrist had faded along with the bite-marks, although there remained a small scar at the base of his left thumb. More painful was the memory of seeing Dief running through a snowy field, held in the sights of Bob Fraser’s rifle, Ben’s finger tightening on the trigger. “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me,” he said, and then the tall, rangy man was up and loping across the room and gathering Fraser into a huge hug. He smelled like Dief, wild and musky and with a hint of the pepperoni pizza he had begged from Ray that afternoon. That was the final proof for Fraser and he ruffled the man’s hair and felt his mouth stretch into a wide grin. “Easy, boy.”

Dief didn’t hear, of course, and only pulled away when the hug was done. A matching grin stretched his generous mouth and Fraser could see that his canine teeth were quite a bit longer and sharper than those of most humans. “You probably got a lot of questions, Ben, and I don’t got a lot of time. Just as long as the moon is up, and she’s already going down. I can feel the sun and the world smells like waking up, so ask your questions and I’ll answer what I can.” He hunkered down and sat on the floor. Ben hesitated only a moment before joining him there.

“Just start at the beginning. Why haven’t you done this before? What…what are you? Not just a wolf, unless the characteristics of Arctic wolves are far stranger than I’ve been led to believe.” The words tumbled out untidily and Fraser had to make himself slow down so Deif could understand him. “Why come to me now?”

Dief nodded, then drew breath and said, “The bite. I had to come to you before you start to change, to explain it to you. Normally we’d just let it happen, but normally we’d be out of the city. You’re facing enough new things already, living in Chicago. You don’t need this surprise on top of everything else.”

The words sank into Fraser’s gut like a punch. “Change?”

Dief nodded. “I’m wer, Ben. Have been all my life. My pack lives near where we met and when you fell in that mine shaft I heard and just had to help. Like I said, I was a pup, but Ma let me try and then let me go with you when it became pretty obvious that you needed me. We don’t usually leave the pack, but I was getting restless and it was time for me to go on my Journey anyway, so I went. Took a longer Journey than I thought I would, but I’ve never regretted it.”

Dief the man was as talkative as Dief the wolf had always been, and stuck less to the point. “Wer? Change? Dief, what are you telling me? That I’m a werewolf now? That’s just silly.”

Dief the man had the same look of patient regard as Dief the wolf, and it was just as infuriating. “Ben, you’re talking to a wolf who has taken on human form. That’s pretty much the definition of werewolf.”

“Actually, the name is thought most likely to derive from Old English 'wer' meaning 'man' or possibly the latin "vir," also meaning man. It has cognates in several Germanic languages including German: 'wer', and Old Norse: 'var'. The second element is 'wlkwo-' or wulf meaning simply 'wolf'. The two elements joined thus yield 'man-wolf.' An alternative etymology looks to Old English weri, or “to wear” plus "wolf", thus meaning “wearer of the wolf skin.” Dief was looking at him oddly and Fraser grimaced. “That’s not important right now. What is important is the fact that werewolves are mythical.”

Now Dief looked pissed. “Yeah. So are ghosts. Be sure to tell your dad that the next time you see him.” He stood abruptly and stalked over to the refrigerator, taking out a bowl of leftover stew and a spoon from the drawer. Without a pause, he started eating, leaning against the counter.

Ben felt like he’d just kicked a puppy, which in a way, upon reflection, he had. Moving over to where Dief could once again read his lips he said, “Do you want me to heat that up for you?”

“Tastes better than kibble,” was the grunted reply. Dief scooped up the last bit of gelled gravy and licked the spoon clean. “Couldn’t you at least spring for Eukenuba? I hate Purina Wolf Chow. I miss the salmon kibble we used to get back home. Ooh, and pemmican. I really miss pemmican.” Insult apparently forgotten, Dief slid his bowl into the sink and ran water from the tap, drinking noisily from the running stream. He shook his head vigorously when he was done, sending droplets flying. “That was good, though. You made it with the last of the caribou roast Quinn sent, didn’t you? And the herbs Mrs. Fernandez grows on the roof.”

“Yes. Grandfather’s recipe. I had to substitute scallions for the wild onion, though. I think it loses something in the translation. Werewolf, Dief?” The wolf never could stick to one subject for very long. Unless he was tracking a suspect; then he was relentless.

Nodding, Dief stuck his head back in the fridge. “Hey, can I have some of this cake? It’s about to go stale.”

“Of course not. It’s chocolate. Could we please return to the topic at hand?” Dief came out and hung his head, but there was a suspicious smear of brown at his lip that spoke of a snatched morsel. “You said something about a change.” Fraser decided to ignore the infraction. There was too much else on his mind just now. “Could you please elaborate on that?”

“Sure. I bit you, so now you got a choice to make. It isn’t like the movies, not totally. I was born wer, but I can pass it on through my bite. That’s why I’m very careful to keep my teeth off of the perps. Claws only, or teeth through thick fabric, which used to be a lot easier than it is here. I mean, back home people wear layers and layers and layers. Here, I’m lucky if there’s a shirt and a jacket. Or even just a jacket.”

“Or gloves,” Fraser said softly, looking at the faint scar.

Dief nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Ben.”

“You said.”

“I’m *really* sorry. I never meant to bite you, of all people. You’re my best friend in the whole world. I love you like a pack-brother. I’d *die* for you, Ben,” the man had tears in his eyes; they glinted in the dimming light before running, silver, down his whiskery face. 

Fraser reached out and, feeling not at all odd, scratched the man behind the ear. It soothed them both as it always had. “I know you would. I feel the same.” He drew Dief into another hug, reflecting that he had given and received more embraces this night than in most of the previous year. It felt pretty good, actually. He stroked the lean, muscled back gently, feeling Dief leaning into him. The warm weight was a comfort, grounding them both, and it wasn’t too long before they drew apart once again.

Clearing his throat, Fraser said, “So, from what you have implied, I seem to be at a cusp of some kind. Your bite has changed me, a truth I have already felt today, although I didn’t realize it at the time, and you imply that further changes are forthcoming. Can you describe them to me? And what is the choice I face?”

Dief wandered over to the window, looking out at the sliver of moon that still showed above the line of tenements. “You can choose to be all wolf or all man. I can change at will during the full moon, but since you weren’t born to it you have to be one or the other before the moon begins to wane. Don’t ask me why it works that way. It just does. If you choose to be a wolf, you’ll be one until you die. If you choose to remain a man, then you’ll stay a man forever. The dreams will stop, and you will only rarely feel like chasing cars and howling at sirens.” This last was said with a doggish grin, aimed over one shoulder. “Of course, you’ve always chased cars, so that won’t be too big a difference.” 

Frasier couldn’t take offence at that; it was true. 

The moon shone pale through his window, the light a washed-out imitation of the glare it would have had on the snow at home. There, the full moon lit the night with a silver radiance that left shadows black and deep under the trees. Light enough to read by, to hunt by, to track by. Frasier wanted to howl, with loss and longing. He missed home.

But Chicago was becoming home to him. His friendship with Ray Vecchio, brash and loud and irreverent man that he was, was something he was coming to value as deeply as his friendship with Diefenbaker. The people in his apartment building were people who relied on him, and the work he did with the Chicago PD had some value as well, he thought.

“It’s hard, Ben,” Dief said, turning back to the window, to that moon. “Between worlds like we are. Whichever you choose, I’m sticking with you. Just so you know. You’re pack. I’ve finished my Journey and I’m home. You’re still on yours, my brother, and I won’t leave you alone on your trail.”

Ben wrapped his arms around himself, holding tight, and felt warmth on his face. He found himself by the window as well, Dief warm by his side. He leaned his head on his friend’s lean shoulder and felt himself wrapped in a strong embrace. How many times had he held on to Dief like that, burrowed into his warm fur on cold nights, protected him and been protected. They rested against each other in silence, and Dief licked away his tears. It didn’t seem odd in the slightest.

After a short eternity, Ben pulled away. “How long do I have to decide?” His voice was hoarse, and he went to the sink for a glass of water. His hands, clever hands, turned the knobs, held the glass, brought it to his mouth. He would lose that, the clever hands, the clever mind. But he would gain, he thought, peace. Of a sort.

“Tonight, Ben. I’m sorry. You have to choose tonight, before moonset. About an hour, now.” Dief looked apologetic. He opened the window, letting the night-cool air into the apartment, and stuck his head out. “Mrs. Ngo is making Nem nướng for her grandson. I can smell the meatballs simmering.” He licked his lips. “Can we go see her tomorrow, Ben? She always shares.”

It was all too much. Frasier started laughing and sat down on the floor, holding his head. “Sure, Dief. Why not? Not sure how she’s going to react to two Arctic wolves on her fire-escape, but I’m sure she’ll be glad to let us in and sample her meatballs. Probably give us a nice bowl of Pho on the side.” 

Dief hadn’t heard him; he was too busy sniffing the breeze. Frasier scrubbed his face with his hands, his human hands, and shook his head. Now all he needed was for his father to show up and start berating him for some blasted thing, and he would know he had finally gone completely and utterly mad.

The choice really was no choice. As a wolf, he would have freedom, but no power. As a man, power and no freedom. He had responsibilities he could not lightly set aside. The wolf was temptation. Benton Frasier had never been a man to give in to temptation.

“I choose, Dief. I choose to remain as I am.” He looked up and found Dief had settled down on the floor in front of him, a sad smile on his vaguely lupine face. “I can do what I wish, but I can only wish what I must.”

“I’ve always hated Schopenhauer,” Dief said flatly. “The man was a dick.”

“Diefenbaker. Language.” Frasier barked a laugh, even as Dief was thumbing more tears off of his cheek. “He also said, ‘Compassion is the basis for all morality.’ Not a bad way to live, as man, wolf, or wer.”

Silver light was fading in the room, as the moon slowly sank behind what they could see of the horizon. The shadows lengthened, and Frasier found himself curled on the floor with his oldest friend, his head resting lightly on a furred belly, the long muzzle lying across his shoulder, a cold nose resting in the hollow of his throat. He reached back and scratched lazily behind Deif’s ears, and listened to the night, and howled in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been out of due South fandom for a long time. I was reviewing my old files and found this one, mostly done, from back in 2006. I'm not entirely happy with the ending, but it seemed fitting. Hope you like!
> 
> Set just after the episode with Maggie and the kids, where Frasier almost had to shoot Dief. Does anyone remember the title? I have forgotten. Bad me!


End file.
